


Oingo Boingo (What the Fuck Does That Even Mean?)

by megyal



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-19
Updated: 2006-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><span>
<a href="http://sharon-hate.livejournal.com/profile">
<img/></a>
<a href="http://sharon-hate.livejournal.com/">
<b>sharon_hate</b>
</a>
</span>
<i>: "Patrick/Danny Elfman, AU&crack circa '78, alley-smut, ft. FANBOY!Tim Burton?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Oingo Boingo (What the Fuck Does That Even Mean?)

_1978\. Los Angeles. Some bar/club. Maybe. But it has an alley._

"Wait, just. Wait, the glass? That glass. Was. Is. Mine," Tim said, trying to make sense and sort of succeeding, only because Patrick was almost as out of it as he was. Not drunk, like Tim. But sort of high. Highish. There was a lot of smoke around here. Lots of naturally mystic smoke, and he grinned at Tim's dazed look.

"You. You are drunk." Patrick adjusted his speech pattern to match Tim's, so that he could be better understood and Tim nodded with deep sagacity. Tim was the one who had bounded into his room, interrupting the cascades of notes shivering underneath Patrick's fingertips from about three different intruments at once, excited about this....band? Band. Right. Or art show. Not quite sure which. Whatever it was, it had been over now for about half an hour, and Tim had been so ecstatic that he had slipped into a sort of high-tensioned excitement and had downed more cheap alcohol than he was used to.

"Oingo Boingo. What the fuck does that even _mean_?" Patrick teased a little, almost laughing outright at Tim's look of scandal.

"It doesn't mean a fucking thing. Or maybe it means everything."

Patrick spun on the plastic barstool, hearing Tim choke behind him, and looked up at hair even more gingery than his own. Onstage it had been slicked with sweat, but now it sprang up into unruly curls, and Patrick ran a hand through his own loose strands and adjusted his thick black-framed glasses.

Tim was still choking.

"Your friend alright?" Danny Elfman was saying placidly, and Patrick shrugged, turning back to pat Tim primly on the back. Danny looked pretty normal. He was wearing a dark suit, strangely. With a slim-jim tie.

"Man. Stop. I'm fine," Tim struggled out, and then sneezed. He looked at Danny apologetically and bit his lip. "Hello."

"Hello. You okay?" Danny flicked his wrist at the bartender and conjured up a drink. Tim looked entranced. "Enjoy the show?" He pressed on, smiling a little, mostly at Tim, until his eyes flicked appraisingly at Patrick, who raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, yeah," Tim breathed, fumbling with his napkin, shredding at it nervously. "Fucking-A."

"Thanks. You?" Danny took a sip of his drink and looked coolly at Patrick, who smiled as if he knew a secret.

"Very dramatic. Maybe too much percussion, though. And all those dueling guitars? Pretty exciting."

"I just bet," Danny replied with eerie calm.

*

"I _thought_ you were a musician. Now I'm sure," Danny said as Patrick pressed the tip of his tongue into the slit of his cock, and Danny breathed in and out, two sharp sounds in the dripping darkness of the secluded alleyway. Patrick was on his knees and the left knee of the jeans he had on was unfairly damp, but that was fairly okay.

"How?" Patrick murmured, taking just the head into his mouth and sucking on it gently.

"You're pressing chords into me with your left hand," Danny groaned out, leaning his head back onto the brick wall and panting. Patrick stretched his mouth and bobbed his head down slowly, noting that he _was_ gripping Danny's upper thigh, some fingers pressed more solidly into the flesh than the rest, now in D7 chord, and moving into C major. "And you're keeping three-four beat with your other hand," Danny continued to gasp and Patrick started to hum what he was playing on Danny, slipping his lips back and forth, his tongue skittering jazzy and loose. He felt Danny tense and then pulse in his mouth, and the bitter taste snapped against his teeth and palate, and above him Danny was groaning in the right key and trying not to buck too hard into Patrick's mouth.

Patrick pulled away and spat, because he was not quite sure of the effects that jizz had on the vocal chords, and Danny dragged him up, muttering that he had this fantastic sequence in his head, and would Patrick like to hear?

"Sure," Patrick breathed, as Danny unbuckled his belt and kneeled in front of him.

*

"So. He said he would consider composing the score for my movie," Tim said, literally quivering in excitement. Patrick stared at him. "What? You said _you_ wouldn't do it."

"I know. But you don't even _have_ a movie. And the Lord of the Rings wasn't a movie, it was a _cartoon_ , and oh yeah, I didn't even see your _name_ on the credits."

"It was an animated movie! And just you wait." Tim sniffed, and then smiled as he sat on Patrick's bed, a beautific grin. "He's gonna be awesome at film scores, don't you think? All that pomp."

"I know," Patrick agreed, remembering the singular arrangement threading through his body as Danny had him in his mouth. "Pretty fantastic."


End file.
